


Spy Game

by cognomen



Category: King Arthur (2004), Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Crossover, M/M, Modern AU, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The table is woefully empty, even in victory, Arthur sitting at the head of the rectangle. To either side of him Lancelot and Galahad sit attentively. There are many empty seats between them and Merlin, the sole remaining bedrock of the original Kingsmen. Some had vanished when the preceding Arthur's plan had failed; Galahad wondered how many were dead, morbidly. The others  - only three - had opted to gracefully withdraw rather than remain in an order that would soon fill with members half their ages. </i><br/> <br/><i>"You all must feel deeply acquainted with the selection process," Merlin says, his soft accented tone seeming mild and harmless, though it keeps its serious edge.</i></p><p>  <i>They all feel the vacancies as a weakness. Until they are filled, operations would be a stretch to continue. </i> </p><p>A King Arthur/Kingsman crossover AU in which everyone is represented by their respective counterparts from the 2004 version of King Arthur, except Merlin and Percival - who should be considered as the Kingsman versions for the sake of simplicity. The Kingsmen find their ranks significantly reduced and decide the only way to fix it is to train more candidates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The table is woefully empty, even in victory, Arthur sitting at the head of the rectangle. To either side of him Lancelot and Galahad sit attentively. There are many empty seats between them and Merlin, the sole remaining bedrock of the original Kingsmen. Some had vanished when the preceding Arthur's plan had failed; Galahad wondered how many were dead, morbidly. The others - only three - had opted to gracefully withdraw rather than remain in an order that would soon fill with members half their ages. 

"You all must feel deeply acquainted with the selection process," Merlin says, his soft accented tone seeming mild and harmless, though it keeps its serious edge.

They all feel the vacancies as a weakness. Until they are filled, operations would be a stretch to continue. 

"If you'll put on your HUD glasses, you'll find I've assembled a fairly extensive list of candidates."

Faces flash over the big screen hung over the fireplace. None of them mean anything to Galahad, who wishes for his predecessor's wisdom - not for the first time since they had defeated Valentine and suddenly found themselves in charge of a venerable spy organization.

"Of course, if you have any qualified applicants in mind that you would like to put forth..." Merlin offers, raising his eyebrows and looking over the remaining agents.

Arthur shifts nervously, and Galahad is glad he will bear the brunt of expectation. 

"I'd like for you all to review the files," Merlin fills the silence. "Pick a likely candidate to back and I'll do my best to round out the first class. We can't expect to fill all the seats after the first round, but we can hope that two candidates will 'survive'."

Arthur nods, agreeing, before he leans forward over the table. 

"We've all recently come through training ourselves," Arthur says, his tone careful. Galahad has faith in him as a leader, even as young and untried as he is. "We know it's effective, that it works."

He runs his teeth over his lower lip, "but I also know how tempting it will be to want our candidates to succeed. In this case, spoiling the game is not going to do us any favors. Hard as it's going to be, we have to give them the chance we got."

"Even the dog thing?" Galahad asks, glancing down at J.B.'s cockeyed visage. Arthur's dog has not gotten any handsomer.

"It's a test of loyalty and faith in leadership," Merlin inputs.

"Agreed," Arthur says. "In this case, I may not treat it as pass/fail."

He reaches down absently to scratch the pug between its ears, fondly. Galahad makes an absent gesture for his own dog, a more traditional choice of doberman pinscher. He had hesitated for a very long time, but ultimately he had put the hammer down on her. He would not forget how the loud noise had made her cower, how she had run to _him_ in her startlement, seeking protection and reassurance. He is not sure that so much dedication is the best result to expect. It is a new era, a new order.

"Perhaps we should do our best to include less traditional candidates," Lancelot suggests, with an adoring glance at Arthur. Galahad keeps his smirk to himself - Lancelot does not like to be reminded of his infatuation. 

"I fully intend to," Galahad agrees. 

Merlin does not argue, but seems to have some reservations. He will likely round the class out with more traditional choices. It does not bother Galahad - they will each perform, as his class had. The results will speak for themselves.

"Good," Arthur says, sitting up. "Make it happen, Kingsmen. I'll expect your candidates in two days - we can hardly afford to fuck around."

Galahad activates the download function on his HUD glasses, leaving the room to consider it. He knows the history he is inclined to look for - top marks, good schooling, military. His instincts, however, tell him to look outside the convention. 

He runs his hand over the crown of his dog's head and considers - he will have to look at the files, in detail, before he makes a decision. He climbs into the pneumatic tube and waits for it to carry him back to the heart of London where he has his apartment. He exits through the back door of the tailor's, instinctively straightening his suit. Pelles follows at automatic heel and they move through the street with a dignity their sharp appearance warrants.

His building is an austere brownstone, well tended, handsome. He enters the front, turns left up the stairs and ascends to the simple living he has embraced. It is not much, compared to the extravagance of his childhood home. He can see it from here, though it might as well be miles away - beyond the oceans, for all he could go back now.

It feels surprisingly isolated, this life. He had expected the danger, the excitement. He had not expected the loneliness - no movies ever left a spy without a lover. This, of course, was not a movie.

Galahad settles heavily on his couch, Pelles comfortably at his feet, and begins reviewing files. He isn't sure what he's looking for, what it is that should make one excellently qualified candidate recommend themselves over another. 

It feels above his head, out of his reach. After he has skimmed all hundred some hopefuls, he feels no closer to an answer. He has not, in fact, even narrowed the field. 

Galahad takes the glasses off, rubbing the sore place the nose pads leave. Pelles watches him, and he decides the best course of action is for them both to get a little more fresh air.

"How do you feel about Queen Mary's garden, girl?" he asks.

Pelles hops nimbly to her feet, a springy motion that betrays how much of a puppy she still is, the stub of her tail furiously wagging at Galahad's tone more than his words. He smiles, gathering the leash for appearances more than necessity. She would hardly leave his side unbidden.

The walk to the park is uneventful, the evening quiet. People are still recovering from the violence of V-day, moving in shock through the world. There are holes in their lives to patch, in their homes. People are suddenly aware of what they are capable of. In spite of all that, life - as it must - goes on.

He had stopped to look in on his family, and found that even his venerable line had not found themselves immune. He had tried not to feel too vindictive about the destruction of several family artifacts that he had been warned away from as a child. 

They were alive and whole, minus the one wayward son. He hadn't needed to speak to them, and he was glad. It was enough to see them safe.

His thoughts stray, as he and Pelles wander the mostly empty garden paths. He pauses, standing by the pond and looking toward the Jubilee gates, his eyes finding Regent's College in the distance, nearly hidden by the trees.

Galahad takes a deep breath of the wet, green-smelling air. Pelles gives a single, startled bark before something impacts Galahad from behind. Only his excellent balance and a quick grab for the safety railing saves Galahad from an undignified soaking.

He reverses quickly, lunging after his attacker and missing by scant centimeters as the dark clad shape drops to the ground in a roll at full speed before springing up into flight. A young man, wearing browns and blacks and sporting wild long hair, tangled and streaming out behind him. 

There is a black square tucked in his hands - a wallet. _Galahad's_ wallet.

The pickpocket runs, and Pelles leaps after, snarling and protective. Galahad feels a fool, to let a common pickpocket get the advantage of him. Distraction and confidence that the park was mostly empty had lulled him. 

The boy - if he is a boy - is fast, but he must go on two legs where Pelles goes on four. He crashes recklessly through the garden, and Galahad calculates quickly what his best exit will be. 

The most likely is onto a busy street with a good chance to lose himself in a crowd. With Pelles on his tail, the thief could not stop to climb over a fence - he must hope to outdistance the dog at a gate.

Galahad cuts ahead, and the pickpocket appears as if on cue, Pelles giving a final lunge to bring the thief down at Galahad's feet. 

Galahad reaches down, reclaiming the wallet while Pelles stands on the thief's back.

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're very athletic," Galahad starts, awkwardly.

It takes little work to convince the thief that accompanying Galahad to someplace quieter to talk is in his best interests. Little work, but he commands Pelles to be alert.

The boy is filthy, long haired, with two dark smudges under either eye tracing the pronounced curve of his cheekbones. Galahad guesses him at ten years younger than himself - a later teen. He could venture a guess at his history, but Galahad can see enough of it in first impressions. The rest he intends to have from the boy himself, if he does not turn out to be a liar as well as a thief.

For now, he is silent, throwing dirty looks at the dog and Galahad in alternating turns. Galahad's wallet is safely returned to the inner pocket of his vest, and his suit has been restored to immaculate order. He had deserved the test of his abilities, letting his guard down.

For all that, the young man was silent, agile, intelligent and faster on his feet than he looked. A red herring perhaps, but Arthur _had_ encouraged them to consider unorthodox candidates.

Holding the pub door open and catching a faint whiff of musk and sweat, unwashed body, Galahad wonders if he is perhaps _too_ far off the mark.

The thief hurls himself defiantly into a seat along one wall of the bar, a booth that will make escape difficult. It will also put a table between himself and Galahad. Pelles moves to settle beneath the table, and the thief jerks his legs up in an instinctive, nervous motion. The table rattles when his knees impact, but he shows no pain.

"Would you like a drink?" Galahad asks smoothly, politely. It is a partial ploy for information. The boy makes an unusual face - his mouth flattens out, his eyes narrow in suspicion, but he nods.

Over 18 then; Galahad's guess was likely to be correct. He settles in across from the thief after making his order at the bar, carrying two Stella Artois back to the table. He sets one in front of his guest.

"What's your name?" Galahad asks, unsure if he'll get an answer - or a truth.

The boy reaches for the beer instead, as if trying to consume it quickly, before making a getaway. Galahad wishes he had the foresight to order food - likely his guest was hungry, and it would tempt him to stay at the table and appease Galahad's curiosity for longer.

"Dee," the youth gulps on the heels of a swallow, glancing up through the fringe of filthy hair. He keeps his hands on his glass as if Galahad might take it from him again. "Are you going to lecture me on how it's wrong to steal?"

Galahad arches his eyebrows - well, it was a temptation. Really, he is more interested in learning the extent of Dee's agility and speed. A lecture might have made sense from his predecessor, but Galahad still feels too new in his position - too close to where Dee is now to get high and mighty. Well - close, in a way. He had not been this unfortunate - far from it. His eyes had been just as closed, his world just as small.

"Dee," Galahad uses his name to help cement it in his memory. "If you think a lecture would teach you more than what Pelles already has about better sizing up your targets..."

Dee shakes his head and Galahad notices braids scattered into the mess of his hair.

"Is Pelles the dog, then?" Dee asks, sparing a glance at her under the table. She wags the stub of her tail without lifting her head - no grudge held.

"Pelles is the dog," Galahad agrees. Dee's voice is deeper than he would have guessed, with an accent that isn't English - nor American.

"Are you hungry?" Galahad tempts. Dark eyes flash up toward him quickly enough to reveal Dee's hand before he can deny it. He is hungry, in a deep way that means more than a day's missed food, more than a few weeks in his current state. 

Galahad doesn't wait for him to try and deny it, standing and carrying his beer back to the bar to place an order. He hesitates there, drinking as he waits for the food to appear. A plan is coming together in his mind but he does not know that he dares it. There is thinking outside of the box, and then there is throwing darts in the opposite direction of the board and seeing if they'll make the curve.

Well, he hasn't committed to more than feeding Dee yet. Galahad wants more of a measure of him before he commits - Dee might have street smarts but not the wisdom for the job.

Something about the intense expression in his eyes, the keen alertness in his attitude keeps Galahad hopeful.

"I'm not going to lecture you," Galahad promises when he carries the food back, "but I'd like to ask some questions."

Dee eyes him warily, but does not outright refuse. When the plate is settled in front of him, a second at his left - stew, and a thick sandwich - he makes no attempt at manners.

Galahad forgives him.

"You're very athletic," Galahad starts, awkwardly.

"Is that a question?" Dee's mastery of a sarcastic tone needs no work. He rolls his dark eyes up at Galahad to see how he takes the comment, between bites of food.

"A point of curiosity, yes," Galahad answers, charmed by Dee's wryness in spite of his rudeness. "Were you formally trained?"

Dee runs his tongue over his teeth, clearly trying to make sense of Galahad's interest. The unwavering, dark gaze seems placid and slow-moving, but Galahad looks just a little deeper to see the sharp intelligence.

"Ballet," Dee admits. It's such an unexpected answer that Galahad is sure it's a lie. "Then, just surviving. Skateboarding, a little."

Galahad notices he does not add 'running away' or 'evading authorities', unless Dee counts that under the blanket of survival. The start - ballet - would explain the incongruous grace and equilibrium. The understanding of his own center of balance, and how to use it against others. It was subtle - Galahad likes that.

"And what's brought you from ballet to- well," Galahad finds no polite way to put it. He leaves the sentence unfinished, supposing the rest to be obvious enough. 

His answer is a wary, resistant look. Perhaps Galahad is pushing too far, too fast. He does not insist on an answer, letting the question fade between them. Dee eats - finishing the soup, then the sandwich in big bites. The 'keep refills both their glasses.

Galahad drinks his and supposes he has entertained this flight of fancy for long enough. Merlin had meant for them to seek unusual qualifications amongst the presented candidates, surely, and not to go so far off-grid on a hunch.

Dee was fascinating, clearly a deep soul with a unique story. But a Kingsman? Not without more investment than they could currently afford - and he might not expect the offer, or understand it. 

"Dee," Galahad breaks in gently, "I won't tell you to find a better way to support yourself."

A wary expression meets Galahad's, suspicious in a way Galahad can't quite interpret. Expectant. Galahad forges on through his own confusion.

"But I will suggest if you see any marks that are quite so well dressed," Galahad warns.

"Beware of dog," Dee agrees, digging into the side of chips with no sign of diminishing appetite. 

Galahad gives him an acknowledging nod, supposing his walks in Queen Mary's garden will remain peaceful henceforth. He rises from the table, settling up the bill - and leaving a generous tip for the barman's tolerance of both Pelles and Dee.

He knows the boy's eyes are on him when he whistles Pelles out from under the table to go, and he feels the weight of them on his back as he leaves, the hooks of curiosity sliding down the tailored center-line of his suit coat. Galahad tries not to feel any unbecoming regret.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Beta'd as always by the dashing Quedarius.  
> -'Dee' is short for Drustan, which is the original form of Tristan... I had to give him a name that wasn't the code name he'll be aiming for! Maybe the irony will not be lost on our Galahad....


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galahad is not a vivid dreamer - he sleeps soundly and deeply, waking with only vague impressions or no memory of dreaming at all. He supposes he must dream; he finds sleep restful and wakes refreshed. He simply has no recollection of it.
> 
> So when he half-rouses to the sense of weight settling over him, Galahad does not dismiss it as a lingering dream. The presence is, however, so careful and gentle as to not rouse his instincts immediately to fight. Instead Galahad rouses slowly to warmth and coiled, shifting muscle over his hips and belly. The weight is - not crushing, and then leans over his chest.
> 
> A warm mouth fixes on his neck, and Galahad wakes fully then, if still into supreme relaxation.

Galahad is not a vivid dreamer - he sleeps soundly and deeply, waking with only vague impressions or no memory of dreaming at all. He supposes he must dream; he finds sleep restful and wakes refreshed. He simply has no recollection of it.

So when he half-rouses to the sense of weight settling over him, Galahad does not dismiss it as a lingering dream. The presence is, however, so careful and gentle as to not rouse his instincts immediately to fight. Instead Galahad rouses slowly to warmth and coiled, shifting muscle over his hips and belly. The weight is - not crushing, and then leans over his chest.

A warm mouth fixes on his neck, and Galahad wakes fully then, if still into supreme relaxation. He is about to scold Pelles for her drool and her discovery of an offensive, musky scent to coat herself in. When he turns his head to keep the warm strokes of tongue away from his face, he spots the dog on the floor chewing a massive soup bone and watching her master curiously. At the same instant a warm hand closes over Galahad's groin through the bedclothes and he tenses awake fully. He surges to movement, but the form on top of him responds just as quickly, pinning his arms with the blankets and shifting to ride the motion out.

Galahad's adrenaline surges, his heart pounding as his half-formed thoughts and well-set training spring to life in defense. He heaves up, strength against bare strength, and manages to wrestle his tucked sheets free. He throws his attacker over onto the bed, his mouth filling with strands of long, dirty hair. Suddenly, the scent assailing him is familiar enough to place.

_Dee._

The boy is chuckling darkly: amused, despite losing his advantage and being bundled at Galahad's mercy in his blankets. Some of the fear eases out of Galahad and he remembers to relax his hold a little, before he suffocates the boy in his sheets. 

Twice in one day, Galahad has been taken off guard by the same person. He turns his gaze angrily toward Pelles who sits unconcerned on the floor still gnawing the bone. She glances up at him as if to imply he is clearly not in any real danger. _Judas Iscariot._

"Are you always this aggressive?" Dee's voice purrs darkly, from beneath the reversed blankets. He shifts beneath them, arching and twisting his body in suggestive curves against Galahad's restraining weight.

For a moment it's so nonsensical he allows it. It's absurd, but at the same time, almost a temptation. Galahad shuts down his own consideration of the subject quickly - he is too tired for proper objectivity.

"Dee," Galahad has to work to keep his tone even, feeling the body still moving sinuously beneath the sheets. "What are you doing here?"

The question strikes Galahad too - how _was_ the boy here? Galahad is certain he hadn't been followed from the pub - Dee had still been eating when he left. Beyond that, the front door was locked and Galahad lived comfortably on the fourth floor, well above street level.

"I thought about your offer of finding a better way to support myself," Dee's voice - the implication seeming slightly less condemning - comes from amidst the blankets. Galahad sits up, pulling the covers back to expose Dee's face - he regrets it. The wafted air smells of the boy's unwashed body. 

"This isn't what I meant," Galahad tells him, sternly.

"Are you sure?" Dee untangles himself lithely from the blankets when Galahad abandons the bed. The motion is sinuous, but still playful. Galahad _isn't_ sure.

He straightens his twisted pyjammas, feeling constricted at the neck and at his hips where the waistband is turned askew. He gathers his composure at the same time, aware of the long moment it takes to do so. He can feel Dee's dark gaze on him the entire time, hear his quiet breaths under the sounds of Pelles still worrying her bone.

"What I _meant_ is," Galahad says, averting the subject to one he feels is somewhat more pertinent, " what are you doing in my apartment?"

Dee tilts his chin, shaking the mess of his hair out of his eyes. _Why_ is self-evident to both of them. Galahad tries to rephrase and finally just stammers out, "How?"

Dee's eyes slide toward the window, and Galahad sees the screen is set aside carefully against the wall, and the window itself is open to a faint, cool breeze.

"You climbed up?"

"Down," Dee corrects him, shifting himself on Galahad's bed, running his hand over the white down comforter appreciatively and leaving a gray smudge. "I took the fire escape on the east side of the building up to the roof, then came down the west side to your window."

Galahad allows himself a moment to be impressed, though he's sure the skill at climbing is probably not honestly come by. He supposes he should feel some gratitude - that Dee had stayed his course instead of robbing Galahad blind. 

Galahad takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush.

"Dee, I didn't intend to - _proposition_ you," Galahad explains, and then he must allow that's not strictly correct. "Not in this way."

Dee's eyes drop away from Galahad then, tracing over the blankets. He does not seem ashamed. He, like any opportunist, latches onto what opening he has been left. "In what way, then?"

Galahad has been walked into a trap, a very clever one to get him to tip his hand and display the reason for his specific interest earlier that afternoon. He's not at all sure the manipulation is accidental. 

He draws himself up straight, once again sizing up Dee. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen," Dee admits quickly - without time to calculate. Galahad guesses it's correct or close. He claimed legality, but did not over-reach.

Galahad is relieved to hear it, though it still puts Dee at ten years his junior - perhaps eleven. His thirtieth birthday will pass during the training phase for the next round of candidates. He tries not to let that make him feel old - Arthur is younger than he as well, closer to Dee's age than Galahad's. 

"Then I'll consider a second chance for you, Dee," Galahad tells him, keeping his back straight. "But I'll have to know a lot more about you, and I can't give you anything about me in return."

"No offense," Dee says, "but the option between trusting someone who tossed me willing out of their bed and going back to pick-pocketing..."

It seems like a lot of words from Dee - at least strung together in a row. Galahad allows that of the two options, he knows which he personally would choose. Still, the practicality makes Galahad more sure of his choice. 

"Can I at least know your name?" Dee asks, still watching Galahad intently. It's bordering on admiration, though Galahad isn't sure how he's earned it, being taken twice by surprise.

"Galahad," he answers, the code name not only safer to offer, but now closer to his real name than the one given him at birth.

"Literate parents," Dee observes, with a roll of his shoulders as he accepts the unusual name. Galahad does not bother to correct the assumption.

"Dee," Galahad says then, and he softens his words with a polite smile. "Before we continue our conversation, I'm going to request you leave my bed and make use of my bathroom."

Dee spares him a look that suggest he doesn't follow Galahad's logic.

"I don't have to-"

"The shower," Galahad insists. "You'll find it has good water pressure and holds temperature well."

Dee looks wryly at Galahad then, as if scenting a weakness in him. Galahad expects to find his politeness tested for durability. Dee will find it tempered strong, tested to the very limits of duress already by Galahad's family. He stands unwavering and patient until Dee untangles himself the rest of the way from Galahad's blankets.

He gives a long limbed, graceful stretch that seems to unfold him totally, revealing how carefully he has held himself to seem unintimidating. Galahad suspects, were they to stand back to back, Dee would be of a height with him - and possibly still growing.

With a good bath, a good hair-cut and a good suit, Dee might begin to pass for handsome. Galahad thinks it will take some doing to convince the youth to undergo the rest of the transformation.

For now, he'll settle for clean and in clean clothes. He pulls a set of his own out, they should still fit the boy well enough. He passes them to Dee and directs him into the bathroom. He does not retreat from his bedroom until he hears the water come on and the changes in the sounds of water hitting the shower floor that suggest Dee is properly washing.

Galahad affixes the screen back into the window against bugs, and takes the soggy remains of the soup bone from Pelles. There is a wet, dark spot on the carpet from her intent work on the marrow, and Galahad looks at it disapprovingly.

"Is this all it takes to win your loyalty?" he demands of the animal. She watches the bone in his hands intently. 

He carries it downstairs with him and returns it to her on the kitchen floor where the mess will be easier to remove. Pelles settles immediately with it, and Galahad sees to making coffee. It is the very early morning but he supposes he has the day to himself unless Arthur summons him. The mercy of being a Kingsman, at least, was that it did not demand his 9 to 5 presence in an office.

He's feeling nearly human again when Dee reappears, coming sodden down the steps from the loft, clean and clad only in a towel hung low on his hips. He's lean, well muscled with a body that's too solid - or would be if he was eating regularly - for professional dancing.

Galahad hides his smile behind his coffee cup to keep from encouraging Dee, leaning casually against his own counter to watch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He calls the barber ahead to set up an emergency appointment, then tries to decide what to do about the young man's wardrobe. While his fellow Kingsmen would surely guess his background after one glance at Galahad's offered candidate, Galahad is not sure he wants to give the advantage to Dee's co-candidates. His own had been merciless to Arthur, and Arthur had a head-over advantage to Dee, strange as that is to think.
> 
> Receiving the suit, however, seemed like it should be an item for more fanfare, a celebration rather than a desperation. Galahad decides to hold off for now, instead deciding to simply clothe Dee decently. His skill will stand on its own - or not. It is a chance, at least.

He calls the barber ahead to set up an emergency appointment, then tries to decide what to do about the young man's wardrobe. While his fellow Kingsmen would surely guess his background after one glance at Galahad's offered candidate, Galahad is not sure he wants to give the advantage to Dee's co-candidates. His own had been merciless to Arthur, and Arthur had a head-over advantage to Dee, strange as that is to think.

Receiving the suit, however, seemed like it should be an item for more fanfare, a celebration rather than a desperation. Galahad decides to hold off for now, instead deciding to simply clothe Dee decently. His skill will stand on its own - or not. It is a chance, at least.

"Don't take too much off," Dee protests as the barber brushes his ragged hair until it is free of all but the worst knots.

The barber glances up at Galahad surreptitiously, and Galahad tips his head in permission to do what needs to be done. 

"Only what I can't save," the barber answers, and Dee misses the inherent threat. The results are certainly better, though Dee seems to catch on about midway through, protesting the proximity of scissors to his ears.

"That's too much," Dee argues.

"It will grow back," Galahad promises. "Healthier, with luck. Let him do his duty."

Dee sulks through the rest, though Galahad thinks his barber rather generous with the definition of 'salvageable'. It leaves Dee's hair sleek and dark, and just enough to tuck together in a curve of ponytail at the nape of his neck.

He touches it incessantly afterward, curling his fingers around the cue. It seems an absent, exploratory motion, making Galahad want to touch, too. He discovers an instinct to know the new texture and discover if it is now as silky as it looks. Galahad discards the desire.

"Dee," he says, "I'd like to get you some new clothes."

"What's wrong with _this_ set?" Dee indicates the tight-fitting shirt, the pants that squeeze his hips with cuffs baring his black-socked ankles. They are Galahad's, and they are too small. His feet are clad in ratty gray sneakers - once white - the soles held up from flopping loose by an assortment of thick postal rubber bands.

"You could use a set that fits you," Galahad says, as tactfully gentle as possible. He has already thrown out the reeking remains of the clothes Dee had arrived with. He only hopes the scent does not linger in his private bathroom.

"Well I suppose I could," Dee answers, cocky, smiling. "But maybe I like wearing your clothes around and letting people think whatever."

Galahad sighs, having trapped himself into the opening. He does not dignify the statement with a response. He does not care to find out what Arthur and Lancelot make of dressing a candidate in his own clothes for presentation. Dee cannot share his wardrobe forever. 

"No go?" Dee prompts.

Galahad shakes his head. He tucks his umbrella over one arm and guides Dee into Topman. Just because he is not going all the way to bespoke does not mean they have to stoop to department stores.

"Pick something green," Galahad advises, turning Dee loose. It proves a bad idea - he does not know his shirt size and seems lost as to what the articles of clothing represented even are.

Galahad endures one display of Dee wearing a waistcoat with no shirt beneath before he sighs and takes a more direct hand. Dee seems satisfied by this change of course, and Galahad wonders if he has just been played into obliging his desires.

"Do you at least know your size?" Galahad asks.

Dee shrugs. "Medium?"

Galahad bets the estimate is a couple of years old. It is also not a proper measurement, outside of Morleys. Galahad begs a sales associate for a measuring tape, uncoiling it into his hands and running it over Dee's measurements. He tries to keep his touch and thoughts clinical while he takes the inseam measurement. For once, Dee keeps any remarks to himself, and Galahad is relieved he has some concept of public discretion. He hopes, too, to set a precedent for professionalism between them.

"You haven't even told me what all of this is for," Dee observes, while Galahad is crouched by his feet.

"And it will still be some time yet before I can explain," Galahad answers. He cannot simply describe Kingsman, not without some proof of what it is. It feels like the violation of a secret that should be kept. He also knows how crazy it would sound to lay out the story of a secret service that was open - albeit currently unknowingly - to accepting homeless young men into its ranks.

Armed with the measurements and Dee's permissive silence, Galahad lets the subject drop in favor of a more pertinent one. He selects several shirts in the appropriate size, and several pairs of slacks. Dismissing Dee into one of the curtained dressing rooms, Galahad waits outside while he tries them on.

"In regard to what all of this is for," Galahad starts, leading into an inevitable discussion of what might prove to be a delicate subject. "How long did you study dance?"

The answer is slow to come.

"Nine years," Dee says, "I started in just dance as a toddler, then moved on to ballet. My mother said it was the only way to get all the energy out."

Galahad waits, quiet. He is certain that it feels expectant enough to encourage Dee to continue in his own time.

"Anyway, from five to fourteen, Ballet," Dee says. "Then we couldn't afford it anymore."

That statement piques Galahad's interest, though Dee passes over it so quickly Galahad senses he cannot yet press for more information. It's more than he had before, and the rest would come. Perhaps he could get access to Dee's records if he could get his full name from him.

"So it's been five years since you danced," Galahad prompts.

'No, It's been five years since I had instruction," Dee admits. "I kept dancing when I had time. I always thought - well, I kept a stupid hope - maybe a scholarship..."

The words trail. Galahad has a clear picture. A young man unable to pursue his passion and perhaps tormented for even having it. Ballet was not the sort of pursuit most boys his age would have embraced. Most, in fact, would use it as an excuse for bullying. Galahad does not see a history of charter schooling in Dee.

"Not so foolish a dream," Galahad assures him gently.

"I don't suppose you're the director of the English National Ballet?" Dee asks wryly. Fishing.

Galahad shakes his head. "I'm afraid I'm more interested in your more recent and rougher skills."

The quiet that answers is not resentful, just considering. Dee shoves the curtain aside and appears again in shirtsleeves. Well fitting, now. His carriage has changed, drawing erect as if proud of his appearance. Galahad likes the change. He holds up the waistcoat to help Dee into it.

"How long have you been homeless?" he asks gently, when Dee turns his back to slide his arms through the vest. Galahad tucks it up onto his shoulders, waiting for Dee to do up the buttons.

"Three years," Dee says, eyes forward. He offers no explanation for why. Galahad adjusts the gathers on the back of the vest until it fits snugly and contours against Dee's trim waist.

"There, that's better." Galahad says, pleased with the result. It isn't perfect, but it's enough to spare Dee ridicule - at least based on his appearance. His attitude - well, Galahad won't make any effort to change _that_. No matter how many well-bred classmates he has, it will serve him well.

"Well, for my half, Dee," Galahad says, watching Dee attempt to downplay his pleasure at the transformed appearance he sees in the mirror, "what I'm offering involves a fair bit of danger - and more than you're already used to, I'm afraid."

"Is that supposed to make me walk away?" Dee asks. The indication that Galahad has only piqued his interest is clear. The idea pleases Galahad, the enthusiasm. He tries to put aside his worry over lightning striking twice.

Too, he tries to disregard his concern over what exactly he'll do with Dee if it _doesn't_. He is walking a dangerous line by choosing someone with nothing to go back to if he fails. It may make him push harder than the others; it may make him fall harder if even that isn't enough.

They aren't there yet. They may never get there. Galahad resolves to let it rest until they do. 

"Very good," he allows, of the final fit. "See what a difference something your size is?"

Dee allows a brief nod, a cocky tip of his head. His hair is already beginning to escape the neat cue, falling loose and rakish into his eyes. He shakes it back.

Galahad writes the cheque. They leave with enough interchangeable wardrobe pieces to get Dee into the candidate program without too many repetitions. He'll be provided with his own ugly plaid jump-suits there, the same as Galahad's class had worn.The borrowed clothes go into the same bag as the new ones, and Dee walks out of the store a new man. 

What a difference in just a little over a day. What a difference, a little human kindness. Dee falls into step next to Galahad, his bag straps curled in his fingers.

"You're not a drug dealer, right?" Dee asks, penetrating the haze that too little sleep has left in Galahad's mind.

It sharply dislodges Galahad's warm, fuzzy thoughts of an afternoon nap. "What?"

"You said we're gonna do something dangerous and you dress like a-" Dee stops, gives his head a tip to indicate exactly how Galahad dresses.

"A gentleman?" Galahad asks, between amusement and concern.

"-a pimp." Dee concludes.

Galahad turns an incredulous look on his charge, feeling his brows creeping up toward his hairline. "I'm not a drug dealer."

Dee grins - he has checked something off his list, pleased to begin eliminating options, to work toward solving the puzzle.

"A pimp?" Galahad asks, after a moment.

"With the stick-" Dee indicates his umbrella, "-and the expensive suit, but your house is all understated."

Galahad is uncertain quite how that spells drug dealer. "I'm not a pimp either."

That seems to amuse Dee.

"And I'll have to ask you," Galahad says, smiling softly, "To purify your thoughts - at least for a little while."

-


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin holds his judgment until after Dee has been escorted into the bunk room with his fellow candidates. He looks at Galahad skeptically as he takes down Dee's given name as a single syllable. Then, they remain silent together in the hallway for a long moment, Merlin's expectation of any explanation a weight in the air. 
> 
> When none is forthcoming they join Arthur in the observation room behind the two-way mirror, watching as the candidates sort themselves into a hierarchy.
> 
> "He's not exactly what I had in mind," Merlin says, dryly, when Dee quickly proves out of his social element amongst mostly ivy-league peers.

Merlin holds his judgment until after Dee has been escorted into the bunk room with his fellow candidates. He looks at Galahad skeptically as he takes down Dee's given name as a single syllable. Then, they remain silent together in the hallway for a long moment, Merlin's expectation of any explanation a weight in the air. 

When none is forthcoming they join Arthur in the observation room behind the two-way mirror, watching as the candidates sort themselves into a hierarchy.

"He's not exactly what I had in mind," Merlin says, dryly, when Dee quickly proves out of his social element amongst mostly ivy-league peers.

"You put what you had in mind in the room already Merlin," Arthur says, and his tone is fair with no sting in it. "I think a few rough edges are important."

Merlin makes a note on his ever-present clipboard and does not argue. The tests will weed out the incapable, and Galahad is confident Dee will _prove_ capable.

"Where's Lancelot?" he asks Arthur. 

"A mission in Prague," Arthur reveals, "and I'm afraid you've got one waiting in the early morning as well, Galahad. Dress for warm weather, and you'll find the digital briefing has been forwarded to your HUD glasses."

Galahad is torn. He would like to see Dee through his first test at least. Beside them, Merlin makes an intrigued noise. Arthur and Galahad turn their attention to him.

"Your Dee is actually a Drustan Tanner," Merlin reveals. "An auspicious name... It seems he was reported as missing in Glastonbury several years ago, after the death of his mother."

Galahad finds himself intrigued and averse both. It feels like cheating to learn the things Dee was clearly unwilling to discuss, yet Galahad knows it's important in their line of business, not to go in blind.

"Seems his mother died of cancer when he was sixteen, and he vanished after refusing to surrender himself to the Queen's custody - didn't want to go into the foster system." 

Galahad allows that at sixteen, his chances of even finding a foster home were slim before he aged out of the system anyways. 

"Where did _you_ find him, Galahad?" Merlin asks, looking up. Galahad resists the first answer that comes to his mind, and instead allows for some mystery.

"We ran into each other," he says, keeping his tone light. "I was impressed."

Merlin eyes him with uncertainty, but there is a room full of candidates and none have been tested yet. He takes a few more notes at their interactions and suddenly Galahad feels somewhat self-conscious about his recent past. He had been quick to jump in with his fellow Oxford graduates in the earliest days, quick to ostracize Arthur.

Clearly, all has been forgiven. Still, knowing that there is no one to be proud of Dee - Drustan, which was auspicious for no reason Galahad knew - leaves him determined to remain until he sees him succeed at the first test.

"Would you mind if I stayed here, Merlin?" Galahad asks, respectfully. "I can review my briefing while we wait."

"I'll have to ask you to leave the room if any of them get the idea to smash through the mirror this time," Merlin says, but it isn't a refusal. 

Galahad finds a seat, moving a stool into one corner to watch and stay out of Merlin's way. He reviews his brief on the HUD glasses, taking in the details while keeping half an ear on the voices projected in from the other room. The candidates, satisfied with the pecking order, arrange their chests and blankets, and ease down to rest. Some are more anxious to sleep than others, but Dee seems able to set aside his worries, to settle down confidently and sleep only on the merit that he now has the time to do it.

Merlin checks his watch and sets a time at just after two-thirty in the morning. Galahad is drifting himself, back pressed against the wall. He trails his eyes over the familiar room, reset to perfection - clean, utilitarian. His eyes go to the shower heads.

"Here we go," Merlin breathes, punching a series of commands into a console on the wall and activating the stopwatch he carries. 

Water rushes up through the floor, silent and swift. Galahad is fascinated by how _fast_ it is. It reaches the bottoms of the beds in under a minute.

"He wrote your name," Merlin says, under his breath, watching the events through the two-way mirror. 

Galahad looks up, trying to make sense of the words without context. He finds himself at the window, watching intently. Merlin glances toward him, sidelong.

"On his body bag, under 'next of kin'," Merlin clarifies. 

Galahad's heart falters, just a little. He summons a fierce smile, watching the candidates wake, panic, rally. "It's a good thing he won't need it, then."

Dee is a powerful swimmer, and he catches on quickly, following the candidates who make for the bathroom, pulls a deep breath off one of the hoses and begins looking for an escape. Merlin makes a note.

He wrenches a faucet off of a sink.

"It's about to get wet in here," Merlin says. "Best go."

Galahad watches him crack the glass, and smiles to himself. He sees as he heads for the door - to his delight - that the other candidates have noted their planted straggler. They will learn teamwork faster than Arthur's group. He closes the door and feels a certain pride - a quiet hope that Dee will grow into the role he's been given.

He retreats to his apartment, to steal two hours of sleep before his mission takes him away, trusting Merlin and Arthur with Drustan and Pelles both.

The mission consumes him for two weeks, pulling him after an increasingly difficult trail. Valentine has opened the door - and the shock following V-Day has broken. Now man is aware of the capabilities of man. In the aftermath, many have appropriated his discovery - conveniently replicated a million fold - a billion fold. In hiding his device in sheer accessibility, he has made certain his legacy will pass beyond his lifespan. Though the Valentine empire has collapsed - and many others with it, governments, monarchies, dictatorships all gone in one spectacular lightshow - the work remains.

Galahad cannot fathom it, only his small piece. The American government, reduced by nearly ninety-eight percent, was limping along in an endless series of provisional revisions. His current mission - removing several obstacles creating difficulty in the re-animation of this zombie government body - would have blown his mind in years past.

Well, he'd always known that spy's work was not quite what was played up in James Bond. He does not indulge in a single car-chase, does not find himself in bed with any beautiful women. Galahad instead spends hours in first-class travel between listening in on clandestine meetings, watching updates on Dee's progress on his HUD glasses when he can find moments. 

Arthur sends comments - ' _a dancer_? Galahad, unconventional.'. Merlin sends lists of impersonal scores and Galahad frets to see Dee lag behind Arthur's candidate, triumphs from afar to see him continue through the first eliminations. 

The flight back to London seems unbearably slow, leaving Galahad anxious, shattering his usual serenity. He fidgets and allows himself an extra drink, takes an Alec Bradley in the back of the taxi while it takes him back to HQ. Mouthing the smoke eases his nerves, takes up the time with something that occupies his hands.

Pelles greets him at the door, stubby tail wagging. He stops at his flat only long enough to lavish affection on her, ruffling her pointed ears, stroking the sleek crown of her head. He leaves her, as Arthur had commanded all Kingsmen until the testing was complete. She whines piteously through his assurance that he will not be gone as long this time. He changes his suit for a fresh one, stuffs Pelles full of treats, and continues to Kingsman HQ.

For all his cajoling, he had not been able to convince Arthur to reveal the breed of puppy Dee had chosen. He hopes the choice was more practical than J.B. Arthur seemed to think the driving curiosity to find out would motivate Galahad to return more safely than his predecessor. 

He has barely stepped into the entrance hall, the sound of the door swinging open rousing a chorus of high pitched yelps and barks to greet him, a herd of puppies charging loose in the halls with a pack of Kingsman candidates chasing behind. Galahad closes the door quickly to keep the indoor chase from becoming an outdoor one.

Six dogs milling and sniffing at his feet, placing tiny paws on his knees, reveal that the candidate pool has dwindled from ten, and Galahad is pleased to see that half of the remaining are young women - including both Arthur and Lancelot's candidates. Arthur's is half-wild, with top marks in marksmanship. 

She claims a hefty black lab from the excited puppies swarming Galahad's feet. A gun dog, a wise choice. He smiles at her, and she answers the expression faintly, turning away to corner Dee.

"Your dog broke ranks first," she says, accusing his puppy of inciting the current riot.

"He's only a puppy," Dee defends, and Galahad holds his breath as he leans down into the pack. He lets it out again when Dee emerges with a perfectly acceptable looking dog - a tailless, shaggy, shepherd puppy. Perfectly trainable. Functional. 

"Be patient with them," Galahad agrees, "and go on back to your work. I'm glad to see such promise."

Candidates collect their puppies, and Dee looks back at Galahad, searching for something. All he can offer is a smile, though it feels woefully inadequate for the pride he feels to see Dee thriving. Smiling, and not looking borne down beneath the weight of living. What he faces here is challenging, even dangerous, but he is happy to face it.

Galahad takes the stairs up to Arthur's office and finds him there, seated in front of his monitor where he can keep an eye on training, smiling. 

"He made a good choice," Arthur observes, and Galahad rolls his eyes that _now_ he is forthcoming. He settles into the seat across from Arthur to make his report. The debriefing is short - Galahad had located the plant trying to remanufacture and revive the Valentine SIMS, and dispatched it neatly with explosives. 

Arthur sits back and listens, eyes dark and troubled, but he divulges nothing, adds nothing.

"Very good job, agent," he flashes a brief, encouraging smile that suggests he knows the cheesiness of his own line. He hesitates, debating saying something. Finally, he ventures, "your candidate stole Merlin's clipboard."

Galahad is simultaneously mortified and impressed. He keeps quiet and waits for the rest.

"I have a good deal of respect for a young man who is talented at slight of hand," Arthur concludes, enigmatically. Galahad allows that he would. Also, that he'll probably get an earful from Merlin for it, the next time they see each other. 

"Have a good night, Galahad. I'm afraid there's another mission for you as soon as Lancelot returns," Arthur dismisses him. No real surprise - with only two agents and Arthur himself occasionally handling fieldwork, they are stretched beyond their limits. He appreciates the warning, and moves to see himself out.

In the hall his instincts kick in suddenly, and he sidesteps, turns, catching out with the handle of his umbrella and finding he has hooked Dee, catching his extended wrist.

"After my wallet again?" Galahad asks, tugging to see if he can pull Dee off balance. He shifts free agilely, with an expert twist to free himself from Galahad's grip. 

"No," Dee promises, grinning. "Just trying to catch you alone. To say 'welcome back."

Galahad smiles, pleased beyond his own expectations. "Work on your stealth. _And_ your cover stories."

Dee promises he will.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Beta'd as always, by the most amazing Quedarius who also adds that we have been most remiss in mentioning that 'Galahad wants the Dee'  
> -Two more parts to go!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galahad makes an effort to be there for each of Drustan's major victories, to be sure that Dee knows Galahad is still watching him. Still believing in him. He wants to be certain Dee knows that he is no longer alone.
> 
> Dee keeps proving himself - a victory in weapons training, good marks in stealth. He's rough in a lot of areas, but agile, a quick thinker if a slow speaker. He astounds them all by proving to have an inborn talent at throwing knives that seems an indicator of the many surprises he comes up with afterward.

Galahad makes an effort to be there for each of Drustan's major victories, to be sure that Dee knows Galahad is still watching him. Still believing in him. He wants to be certain Dee knows that he is no longer alone.

Dee keeps proving himself - a victory in weapons training, good marks in stealth. He's rough in a lot of areas, but agile, a quick thinker if a slow speaker. He astounds them all by proving to have an inborn talent at throwing knives that seems an indicator of the many surprises he comes up with afterward.

Between missions, Galahad manages to join Merlin in the control room when they are given their first jump mission, settling down in a rolling chair next to him.

Merlin activates the switch, informing, "Galahad is here with me, Drustan."

A whoop, and then Tristan is first out of the plane, to Galahad's pride and chagrin. He had hesitated himself, if only a little.

"He was asking about you," Merlin tells him, without broadcasting it to the team. 

"Merlin," Galahad asks, leaning closer to watch the monitors at Merlin's shoulder, eyes on the screens indicating altitude, chute status, and radar. "You said Drustan was a fortuitous name."

Merlin nods, making a note about something he hears over his headset.

"Why is that?"

Merlin leans back, smiling. "Drustan is a form of Tristan, after all. He was the first to turn up missing, after Arthur."

Galahad thinks that's only partially fortuitous, but he takes Merlin's meaning. The first to disappear should be the first to be replaced - if Dee could only keep his cool and keep on target.

He knows Arthur has more than one chair to fill, that those who passed this test had only to prove themselves loyal and unhesitating afterward. The desire to see Dee succeed has been building up in him until it's all he can do not to drop hints in the young man's presence. 

He does not need to, or so he tells himself as he watches the screen, as he listens to Merlin's cheery lilt telling the candidates that someone doesn't have a parachute. The screaming that responds is audible, even with Merlin's headset on his ears. He smiles with obvious pleasure at his job.

"Do you ever really send anyone up without a chute?" Galahad asks, curiously. "Just to shake things up?"

Merlin shakes his head, eyes on the screen, listening to the candidates communicate. 

Galahad watches the descending dots as well.

"I was the one," Merlin says, and Galahad only realizes Merlin is speaking to him when he doesn't take his finger off the mute button on the keyboard, "without a parachute. I cracked three ribs. No one goes without a chute."

Galahad is glad to hear it, though he expects whoever doesn't realize they don't have a problem will be just as scared and angry as Arthur had been. 

Merlin winces. "There goes Lancelot's candidate." 

One red dot on the radar, then two more chute open signals and - then two more.

"Ah, Dee and Lyn tried the old 'I'll pull yours, you pull mine' maneuver. Will you come see who's in the circle with me?"

Galahad can see Dee and Arthur's pick both in a mass of parachute in the target center. He knows if he goes, Dee will look at and listen to no one but him. "I won't steal your thunder."

Merlin pats him affectionately on the shoulder and goes to weed his candidate garden. Galahad knows the three that are left - Dee included - still face the hardest part. Tonight, however, they should celebrate. He knows that they will be overjoyed.

If he strolls into the barracks armed with a case of beer and four tall glasses to celebrate, it is not quite tradition - but it is welcome anyway. They all stretch their drinks.

"How often do you jump out of planes, Galahad?" Lyn asks, her dog now big enough to rest its blocky, black head on her knees. She runs her hand over the crown of the dog's head absently, and it looks up at her with deep brown adoring eyes. He doesn't envy her. The hardest test of course - faith in something beyond the self - is to come.

"I have a bit of hesitance in trusting myself to free fall these days," Galahad admits.

Dee's dog alternates paws in Dee's lap, shifting anxiously before he simply jumps up into it. He is clearly to old and too big, but welcomed up anyway. Dee slings one arm around the dog's middle, comfortably.

"I'd do it again," Dee says, boasting. He's smiling too,and Galahad thinks that perhaps he isn't the curator of the London Ballet Company, but what he has offered is at least enough to make Dee happy.

Galahad doesn't stay too long, but leaves them with their beers, knowing they won't truly relax until no authoritative eyes are on them. He misses the quiet, easy times like these, and hopes that once there are new members in their ranks they won't forget friendship. 

He thinks if the old Arthur had any major fault - aside from the obvious - it was that. Too much distance between the operatives.

Perhaps that began too early, in turning recruits against one another for single spots. Galahad eases out onto the back balcony, enjoying the night air, waiting for Arthur to join him.

"You don't know how hard it was to convince Percival's man to reprise his role as surprise interrogator," Arthur grumbles in an undertone. "Do you think they'll get further with their object d'amor than we did?"

Galahad tips his head, unsure. He chuckles. "Would you like to bet on whether or not they're smart enough to stop drinking strange tasting champagne?"

Arthur looks doubtful. _He_ had, after all, been the first to unconsciousness. 

"Out of curiosity, is there a backup in case they outsmart the spiked drinks?" Galahad asks.

"Anxious to see behind the curtain, Galahad?" Arthur grins. "There might be. Stick around and find out.

"As if I could leave now," Galahad muses.

Arthur shoots him a glance that suggests he'd better not even _dream_ of it. He passes Arthur the falsified records he'd planted and created for their soon-to-be target. She is, of course, lovely, and also well-paid to be in on the gig.

"He'll pass, Galahad," Arthur assures him, when he hesitates. "And you'll be there for his field tests, unlike our mentor."

Galahad hadn't factored his own mortality into his worries. He wonders if Arthur knows something about his next assignment that he doesn't. Likely, he is only remembering his loss. Galahad has nothing so dangerous on his plate as Valentine. He hopes that is not by choice, that Arthur is not hesitating to assign truly dangerous tasks because he does not want to risk anyone.

Even if he is, Arthur can't avoid danger forever. Sooner or later, they would all find their share.

Galahad stays until the night grows late and the house quiet, and then he sees himself out, knowing that his next return will be for their graduation. 

He is on the plane when Arthur, unusually mischievous, forwards him the first videos of the candidates progress. Galahad lingers the most on one of his unconscious charge chained down to subway tracks, wondering if _he_ had looked quite so undignified. 

He hopes, if so, that no pictures exist. 

The urge to call Dee and somehow prepare him for his last test leaves Galahad fumbling with his phone, turning it over and over in his hands. In the end, he does not call, but he realizes in those red-eye hours as the plane crawls over the ocean, that no matter the outcome he will be unable to give up on Dee. He has grown fond of the young man, as unable to put the hammer down on him as he should have been for Pelles.

When he sleeps, his dreams call up the phantom sensation of a tongue at his neck, and he slips deeper to the tune of the roaring jet engines.

-

Dee is doing a handstand at the top of the grand railing when Galahad returns. He twists his body suddenly and drops from the top level down to the foyer and lunges - Galahad sidestepping but smiling to engage in the play.

This time, he's ready for Drustan, and he moves out of the way of the first few grabs, then catches one of Dee's outstretched hands and turns him on the pivot of his own balance, using momentum against him. He spins, the balance changes, Dee catches himself with a half step. Then, they are wrestling for leverage, pulling and twisting in a match that's half a dance. They turn, gripping and touching, equal parts dead earnest and play.

"Arthur wants to see me," Dee says, breathless and grinning. Galahad hoists him off his feet, over his shoulder and not quite to the floor. He catches himself on his feet and launches at Galahad's knees.

"Will he be congratulating me?" Dee pries, pushing Galahad over and then sitting on his thighs, nonchalantly victorious again. Galahad has let him be - they could spar properly in the gym where there is no furniture to break.

"That's dependant on whether you deserve congratulations," Galahad kicks his way free, straightening his suit and easing his hair back into place as if he hadn't just been rolling on the floor with a man - and he was a man now, clearly, if ten years his junior. As if Galahad had not _liked_ it.

"How did your mission go?" Dee asks, suddenly remembering.

"Well," Galahad says, "they're not all beaches, martinis and voluptuous twins." Dee will learn soon enough that the glamor in being a Kingsman was only what he brought with him.

"If you're given the place," Galahad promises. "You're going to need a new suit."

Dee glances down at his plaid jumper as if he'd be happy to wear it forever. Galahad bets he would, but - he remembers how proud, how changed Dee had seemed to be in clean, new clothes.

He bets Drustan will come around quickly to the idea of a real fitting. 

"Will you need to take my measurements again?" The question is sly.

Galahad would suppose yes, but he doesn't play into the bait. He tries not to feel the invitation as a temptation, either. 

"Go and see Arthur," Galahad tells him, certain he'll have a codename and perhaps a few cross words for Galahad after his final test.

Dee reaches out then and pats his palm confidently in the center of Galahad's chest, over his tie, and Galahad realizes Dee now has the advantage of height, and another year or two might give him bulk.

"Thank you, Galahad," he says, meaning it.

Then he hands back Galahad's wallet.

-


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galahad knows when Tristan, newly named, succeeds in his first field mission. It is by the same method he delivers this news that he had delivered news of his apprenticeship into Kingsman, alongside Guinevere - who had chosen her own code name. Tristan lets himself in Galahad's window, and Pelles greets him only with the furious wagging of her stumpy tail.

Galahad knows when Tristan, newly named, succeeds in his first field mission. It is by the same method he delivers this news that he had delivered news of his apprenticeship into Kingsman, alongside Guinevere - who had chosen her own code name. Tristan lets himself in Galahad's window, and Pelles greets him only with the furious wagging of her stumpy tail.

_Junius Brutus_.

This time, however, Galahad is still awake, sitting up in bed with a file spread over his lap. He is trying to piece together the conflicting accounts on the leader of some new shadow organization, uncertain whether it could be only one man or whether it must be a group working together to appear as one person. Covering for each other, willing to be lost, and to fall into place to cover any losses.

Tristan sets his screen inside the window, though he does not fit as easily through the open window as he had the first time.

"How did it go?" Galahad asks, trying to hold back his smile, to keep his amusement to himself. His first success - not quite comparable to this, but close - had left him exhilarated, aware suddenly of how _alive_ he was. The pride that radiates off of Tristan now, the way his eyes shine, suggest the same feeling.

Tristan crosses the room, stepping into Galahad's line of sight - perfectly groomed, his hair only the slightest bit out of place from his climb. His eyes are bright, and there is no longer any sign of the dirty, homeless boy in him. A year and better has transformed him - as it has Galahad - and he stands straight and slim. The suit draws Galahad's eye down the line of his back, the tailoring matched to him perfectly.

When Tristan is sure Galahad is looking, he brushes the papers out of Galahad's lap and replaces them with himself, settling heavy over the blankets. 

"I shot four people," Tristan breathes, and it is not with any negative emotion but a real pride. Galahad wonders, only very briefly, what he has unleashed on the world.

Well, he amends, it was very likely that Tristan had shot four people who required shooting. That he had _enjoyed_ it, Galahad takes as an indicator of pride in his work, rather than any sociopathic tendencies. 

"Did you succeed?" Galahad tests - teasing. Tristan's pride would hardly have let him stop before he did - it was a part of what had so well qualified him.

"Did _you_?" Tristan asks, indicating the papers scattered over the floor at the bedside.

Tristan leans closer over the blanket, his weight solid on Galahad's legs, his smile white and charming. He is half gentlemen and half still forward, determined, _Dee_. It is every bit as alluring as Tristan expects it to be, damn him. It's hardly professional for Galahad to feel it working on him.

"Now that we're on even ground," Tristan proposes, and Galahad feels him coiling slowly, ready to _prove_ they are equals if he must. "I wondered if you might reconsider being my mentor?"

"I agreed already to mentor you," Galahad answers, purposefully obtuse, drawing the game out longer. He is pleased by it, adding, "I'd say it was a success."

"A new chapter, then," Tristan suggests, lifting his hand to pin Galahad, palm flat on his chest to press him against his own stacked pillows.

Knowing he shouldn't, knowing full well Galahad should laugh, make light and pull on his gentleman's mask does not make Galahad actually _do_ it. He has never fully embraced doing only what he _should_. It is why he is here, estranged from his family but with one he considers far better, far _closer_. Ideally, perhaps not _this_ close, but Galahad supposes there is no explicit rule against such involvement with another Kingsman agent. While most of society might frown on Galahad's position of relative power, now that Dee has become Tristan, they are, as Tristan himself had put it, on even footing.

"What do you plan on recording in this new chapter?" Galahad asks, not protesting. Instead, he lets his body go slack, unwinding as Tristan winds up.

"How fast I can make your heart beat," Tristan suggests, starting to hunker down over him. Very smooth.

Galahad waits for exactly the right moment, for Tristan to have committed himself past reserve. Then he surges into motion, fighting Tristan over onto his back, seizing the comforter and throwing it over Tristan as he carries him down onto the bed.

"And what," he says, raising his voice so that Tristan can hear him with his head muffled in the blanket, "about your _own_ heartbeat, agent?"

It is patently undignified, what follows. A destruction of Galahad's carefully made bed, of his carefully implied control. When all the pillows are scattered on the floor, when even the bottom sheet is pulled up and weaponized, Tristan manages to pin Galahad flat, they are both out of breath and both with racing heartbeats. Galahad is satisfied with knowing the measure of his own strength - even in such friendly wrestling.

For a certain definition of 'friendly'. In this case, a very intimate one, when Tristan claws the blankets down and leans forward to press their mouths together at last, sharing hot breaths, soft lips. Tristan's scent - now inoffensive cologne, spicy and citrus orange - wafts against Galahad's awareness. His hands fight their way free of his own rumpled blankets to tangle around the back of Tristan's neck.

Some of the pressure eases off Galahad's chest as Tristan lifts himself enough to encourage the touch, to hiss laughter against Galahad's mouth as he claws Tristan's hair free of the curled tail it's gathered in. It comes loose in his hands, and he pulls on it, threading his fingers through the strands at last and satisfying himself as to its softness.

"Galahad," Tristan purrs, eyes mostly closed, mouth close, "will you give me your real name?"

"Earn it," Galahad counters, and then a hiss when Tristan's hand unerringly finds his forming erection beneath the blankets, through all the layers with just enough pressure to encourage it further along.

Now his ploy of tangled blankets works against him, all contact where he most wants it muffled and far more distant than he'd like, but near enough to tantalize and wake sensation.

"Alright," Tristan purrs against his neck, and then presses his open, warm mouth there as if to seal the words against his skin. He does not suck a mark there, but applies enough pressure that the sensation lingers after he lifts his mouth away.

Tristan sits up and drags the covers off of Galahad to expose him on his own messy bed, freeing his arms carefully, wary of giving Galahad the freedom to make further trouble. Cool air from the open window eases through the thin material of Galahad's pyjamas. Instead of wrestling for dominance - never resistance, just to be certain Tristan knew his strength was not subdued but willfully put aside - he welcomes Tristan's warm weight. Galahad eases a knee up between Tristan's legs for pressure against his groin.

Tristan rubs back against him, pulling his tailored pants tight over his ass and groin, hissing. Galahad reaches for the button at the same moment Tristan shoves his hand into the open, yielding fly of Galahad's bottoms and gets lucky, finding skin.

Heat and friction steal Galahad's breath and he arches up, wanting more, wanting contact and his own leverage to make Tristan just as desperate. The button seems impossibly tight, resisting his grip, so Galahad tugs, pulls until the waistband yanks against Tristan's back. It pulls him down, easing the bulging front of Tristan's slacks against the back of his own hand and Galahad's erection. A moment of tension and then the zipper gives a little, enough that Galahad can get his thumb behind the button and pry it open.

When they shed the rest of their clothes, they have very little thoughts of how they're supposed to be gentlemen. It's forgotten, left behind - a dropping of armor that Tristan has found and encouraged in Galahad, working his fingers into the cracks and pulling them wide as he lifts the waistband away from Galahad's hips and then pulls off his pyjamma bottoms last.

"I really wanted to do this the first time I saw you in these," Tristan tells him.

Galahad grabs his ass - firm, athletic, unyielding - and tells him, "shut up."

Tristan laughs at him and they roll again, leaving Galahad on top this time, and he makes Tristan feel it, gathering both their cocks in his hands - it takes both - and rolling his hips until the smile fades around Tristan's exposed teeth, until they're both panting and wild. 

"How was it..." Galahad finds his polite, cultured tone and uses it, cool and careful in the spaces between his sobs for breath, "...that you envisioned this encounter going?"

Tristan shakes his head - either he hadn't thought so far ahead or he has decided to abandon what plans he has in favor of improvisation.

Good. A Kingsman's best attribute is in rolling with the punches - or, in this case, simply rolling in the proverbial hay. Galahad indulges the next idea that occurs to him and moves up, pinning Tristan's arms with his knees, crouching over him.

Tristan takes the idea to heart, opens his mouth obediently and takes Galahad's cock even at the difficult angle. It's good, slick and hot and sloppy. Galahad is careful not to choke him, but ungentle with his hands in Tristan's hair. Shallow, slow, but pleasurable.

Hands run over Galahad's hips, down his thighs and then ease behind his balls, against his entrance. He sighs out, and lets himself surrender to the sensation, curling his fingers harder in Tristan's hair when he gets too distracted, and makes motions that are barely flexing but that slide him over Tristan's tongue in the filthiest way.

On the verge of release he finds his control, his mercy, and lets go. He draws back, enjoying the lewd, wet sound of his cock sliding out between Tristan's lips, the way Tristan needs a moment to compose himself, working his mouth and swallowing, coming up again from the depths of his concentration.

"Did you think to come prepared?" Galahad gasps, and the shuddering tone of his own voice ruins any authority it might have had. Galahad doesn't care.

Tristan catches his breath, drags coherent thought up from the part of his mind that is subsumed beneath the parts thoroughly saturated in lust. "I thought you would-"

Galahad lets him see his playful displeasure. "I expect, when you crawl through my window to seduce me, that you will be prepared to follow through."

Tristan cock jumps at his words, easing full against Galahad's thigh. It is as much an invitation back for repetition as Galahad is likely to extend. That Tristan understands it to be such pleases him.

"You could finish what you started," Tristan suggests, his voice rough, _used_.

Galahad hums as if in consideration. Then he reaches, taking pity on Tristan if only to push things where he wanted them to be.

"Next time," he suggests, only to see a pleasurable anticipatory light wake in Tristan's eyes, a spark in the depths that he wants to fan and fan until it's consuming. "You _won't_ forget."

Or, perhaps, he will. He will pay for it and perhaps enjoy punishment as much. There are still mysteries in him, as Galahad hands over the little bottle, as he refuses to surrender control even as Tristan stretches him open. A depth that will reveal itself only with time, and they have it. Time and chances and danger, and a title to go with them.

Tristan takes him unhesitatingly when Galahad lowers himself over, barely letting him adjust, and watches Galahad with heavy-lidded eyes. Galahad sees him mark a victory, and leans down to bite him for it. There is very little after that but rush, sparks, heat. 

After, they ease together on Galahad's wrecked bed, breathless, close. Tristan touches him gently along his back, over his neck, brushes fingers against the mess on Galahad's belly.

"I expect you to make my bed," Galahad tells him, earning a lazy, rumbling laugh. The arms around his middle curl tighter.

"Will you order me to shower again?" Tristan murmurs, mouth pressed against Galahad's collarbone. 

"Not," Galahad says, yawning, "before you make the bed."

After all, it was best to lay the rules out from the beginning - and this, clearly, is only the start.

-  
[End.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -And here we are at the end. I had fun with this one.  
> -Much thanks to my faithful beta, Quedarius (archiveofourown.org/users/Quedarius/pseuds/Quedarius), for all the hard work. Definitely an agent worthy of the Kingsmen.

**Author's Note:**

> -In this version, the role of Eggsy was played out by Arthur - who, since he failed his test for Lancelot's position and then went on to involve himself in exposing Arthur as a traitor, assumed Arthur's role in the Kingsman.
> 
> -Lancelot fills the role of Roxy here, no major surprises.
> 
> -But in this case Galahad was a candidate put forth by one of the other Kingsmen who passed his tests and was sent into the field alongside Lancelot to determine the final person to assume the role. Then V-day happened and things hit the fan and ultimately they decided not to dismiss an excellent agent, even if he seems to be the one who stumbles the most often.
> 
> -Pelles, the dog, is a reference to the Fisher King of Arthurian legend, grandfather of the legendary Galahad. Depending on which legend you read, he may have tricked Lancelot into sleeping with his daughter or Lancelot may have simply mistaken her for Guenevere. Either way, her name is a mythological reverence to the Lancelot-Grail cycle of Arthurian legend.
> 
> -Beta'd, as always, but the amazing [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quedarius/pseuds/Quedarius>Quedarius%20</a>,%20a%20worthy%20Kingsman%20candidate%20herself.)


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